Flight of the Dawn Brigade
by NejiKikyoAnimeRose
Summary: Sothe and Micaiah have escaped, and they've left their mark. Takes place after the opening prologue cutscene in Radiant Dawn.


**Title: Flight of the Dawn Brigade**

 **Summary: Sothe and Micaiah have escaped, and they've left their mark. Takes place after the opening prologue cutscene in Radiant Dawn.**

 **Warning: Does not feature any main or named characters.**

* * *

The girl and her companion slipped away into the night. No one bothered to follow them. On the ground, the one man unlucky enough to get his throat cut open shook where he lay, choking and gurgling, blood pouring forth from the wound.

"What happened here!?"

The commander approached the dying man and knelt beside him, summoned to the fray by the call of a soldier's battle horn. Around him, the blinded soldiers blinked frantically as they tried to clear their vision. For some, the blinding light slowly began to dissipate. For others, nothing happened. None of them thought to answer the commander in their panic. Sensing the futility in his demand, the commander turned instead to the injured man.

"Someone get a healer!" he bellowed.

"Yes, sir!" It was his lieutenant, with him during the altercation and thankfully spared whatever sorcery it was that did this to his unit. The commander didn't bother to watch his lieutenant disappear into their limited ranks to find a healer. He trusted the woman would carry out his orders in record time.

Turning his thoughts back to the downed man, the commander gently removed the soldier's helmet, placing his hand beneath the man's head. For support, to aid his breathing, for simple comfort, he didn't know. It was most likely a futile effort, regardless of the reason. Likely the only thing the soldier knew right then was that he was in pain and going to die. The commander could see it in the frantic fear in the man's wild eyes. He bit back a weary sigh and resigned himself to the Wait.

The greener of his soldiers crowded anxiously about him, uncertain of what to do, while the more experienced soldiers hung their heads in knowing unease and went about helping the blinded men. The commander looked around at the circle of soldiers the dying man had attracted.

"Unless any of you have any healing staves hidden in your armor, you can go about your usual duties."

Several of them jumped, as though they had not expected to be caught, and quickly scurried to obey the terse command. Perhaps relieved, perhaps dismayed, perhaps both. Two remained behind, however, and removed their helmets. One with deep brunette hair, shaggy as one would find on a dog. The other with fiery red hair, pulled back and well-kept for a soldier. The commander remembered getting this one from one of the lesser noble families of Begnion. He looked to them expectantly.

"Problem with your ears, soldiers?"

The red-haired one shook his head, looking like a child, and the brown-haired one inclined his head in respectful defiance. He was the elder of the two.

The commander waited, brow furrowing in impatience.

"No, sir. No problems, sir," the red-haired man spoke quickly. "It's just—" He faltered momentarily and his eyes flickered down to the dying man. The commander's hand twitched as he noted the man's struggles were fading. Not long now. He looked back up to the red-haired man, noting the same recognition in his eyes.

"We need to…" He cut himself off again and knelt on the ground beside the downed man. Reaching forward he placed one hand beneath the man's head and the other over the open wound. The commander decided he would allow the soldier's actions without reprimand, and leaned back to allow the red-haired soldier the space beside the dying man. The red-haired soldier leaned in close and began to speak to his companion in a low voice. The commander noted how the injured man's eyes had found and locked almost desperately onto the red-haired man.

It was the least he could do for a dying soldier, to allow him the comfort a trusted and beloved friend in his final minutes.

The commander stood to his feet beside the brown-haired soldier and surveyed the scene before him with familiar bitterness. Over thirty years of service to Begnion and still he felt like a brand the loss of each and every soldier who died in his charge. Another weight on his back.

"How's the arm?" he asked quietly of the brown-haired soldier. Too low for any but him to hear.

"Unimportant," the man answered, his voice barely a rumble in his chest. The commander scoffed quietly under his breath, and even that seemed to take effort.

"Like the rest of you?"

"Exactly."

They fell silent. The commander raised his eyes from the sight of imminent death and turned instead to the soldiers who were only slightly luckier than this one. The blinded ones were doing a poor job hiding their panic, some breathing too fast to be healthy, others grinding the heels of their palms into their eyes, others still calling desperately for vulneraries or herbs. The commander sighed.

"Go lend them a hand," he ordered the brown-haired soldier. "I don't envy our healer once he arrives. Keep them calm until then." The soldier grew rigid at his side.

"The boy," he said stiffly, nodding toward the red-haired man still on the ground. The commander's gaze grew hard.

"If the Dawn Brigade is anywhere in the area," he declared with tempered but potent ferocity. "We will find them." It was the best he could promise. He knew that the brown-haired soldier wanted only to ensure the safety of the red-haired one, but there was little he could do when both were soldiers. Death was to be expected. Pain and loss as well. The commander would never lie about that.

Seeming to sense this, the brown-haired man inclined his head once more and moved to carry out the command he had been given, his eyes traveling to the red-haired man only briefly. The commander watched him go, noting an aborted movement to grip his right arm.

"Commander!" The lieutenant. "The healer is here, sir!"

The commander turned abruptly, relief tentatively building in him for the first time that night. He gestured impatiently for the healer to hurry, noting with approval that the boy seemed to take the unspoken command to heart.

A stout and round young man, the healer was often the subject of pranks and teasing when off the battlefield. When on the battlefield, he was trusted, protected, and valued.

As the healer approached, the red-haired man finally tore his eyes away from the dying man – barely a breath left in him now – and turned his gaze on the healer, hope warring with fear in his clouded eyes. The air was filled with crackling tension as the healer gripped his staff and concentrated his energy on the wound. The jewel on the end of the staff lit, a soft light engulfing them all as they watched in silence.

The commander allowed his tired eyes to fall closed as the healer worked, and his thoughts turned from his men to their targets. Days from now they would have a new hideaway, and there would be another chase. Days from now, there might be more men injured or killed in that chase. Days from now, this would repeat itself, the Dawn Brigade would strike and escape, and the people of Daein would revere their Silver-Haired Maiden just a little more. Leaving the commander and his men to fill the role of the villains, the oppressors.

Perhaps he could send a missive to the Begnion high command, then. Perhaps he could even catch the attention of the Apostle herself, or the Prime Minister. Something needed to change if this occupation were to be successful and beneficial to both Daein and Begnion.

Something needed to improve.

But for now, one of his men was straddling the line between life and death, and his healer was taking up the temporary role of a god, trying to manipulate that line as best he could. So, for the moment, all the commander could do was exercise patience, and wait for success or failure.


End file.
